The Headhunt
by StarSword-C
Summary: Written for Literary Challenge #65: Myths & Lore on the Star Trek Online forums. The USS Bajor responds to a reported break-in at the Federation supermax prison Facility 4028. Lieutenant Dul'krah, Clan Korekh is assigned to investigate.
1. Part I

**USS ****_Bajor_**** NCC-97238 Department of Security, Case #2401, Classified Lambda-5 RAZOR BRIGHT GEPPETTO**

**File Reference RAZOR BRIGHT GEPPETTO DC-4: Investigating Officer's Personal Log**

I am Dul'krah, son of Var'takh, Home-Clan Korekh, Blood-Clan Rustra, Ship-Clan Bajor.

My people have a saying. _Tuivakh ver eshalakh_. The truth is mighty. It is this saying that gives the name to the service that keeps the peace among the Clans. The Ver Eshalakh are a Clan unto themselves. It was my pleasure to serve them actively for nineteen standard years, and though I am part of the Federation Starfleet now, I still serve them in a passive role. Once part of a Clan, you leave only by doing dishonor to the Clan's name.

My people have no name for themselves as a whole. Even the name by which the greater galaxy knows us, "Pe'khdar", was given to us through a misunderstanding. The Ferengi who rescued us from our ruined homeworld asked us who we were, and we replied, "The last Clans." This in our tongue is 'pe'khdar', and so were we named. It suffices. The Federation calls our state the Pe'khdar Nation for Council representation purposes, but we ourselves hold allegiance to only the Clans with which we are affiliated. It is the Assembly of Clans that gives the Federation allegiance, not individual members of our people.

At present the most relevant of my affiliations is my Ship-Clan, where I am the elder in charge of ship's security. It also means I am responsible for all criminal investigations undertaken in the purview of the USS _Bajor_. On occasion we are tasked to investigate outside the ship. One such occasion is today.

I am in my quarters, researching chord conversions for my latest effort on the vodchakh. I am told by Great Elder Kanril the instrument resembles a small seven-stringed lute that one plays like a violin. The description is apt: I am familiar with both instruments and once successfully translated for the vodchakh a short violin piece by a human named Lindsey Stirling. Such conversions are a hobby of mine and my project of the moment is a _tlngDagh_ piece by Korbak, son of J'mpok. I hear that the twelve-times-damned war criminal's only son is somewhat of an embarrassment to his father for having no interest in becoming a warrior or politician, either of which would be a waste of a great talent in my opinion.

I raise the vodchakh to my chin and bring up the bow, intent on attempting the first movement, when I am interrupted by the chime of the ship's intercom, indicating I have a page waiting. Annoyed, I strike the key with the bow. "This is Lieutenant Korekh," I answer in Federation Standard English.

"Dul'krah, it's Eleya. I've got a job for you. Report to my ready room ASAP, please."

"I am en route." I lay aside the instrument and mutter a short prayer to Vo'tak, the night god who watches what must be set aside, before opening my door and stepping into the corridor. I step around two Bajoran crewmen traveling in the direction of the shrine Kanril had installed in compartment 0847 on this deck, and continue to the bridge turbolift. "Bridge."

Elder Phohl is there to greet me. "Lieutenant."

"Sir." I duck under the doorframe, as usual—the _Galaxy_-class interior designers did not have beings of my people's typical height in mind—and follow the Andorian to the starboard door, taking a glance at the viewscreen. Our course must have changed while I was off-duty: The plot shows us headed for the Ayala system.

The door slides open and I come to attention for Kanril Eleya, Great Elder of Ship-Clan Bajor, who is talking to someone over subspace. When I received my assignment to the _Bajor_ before her launch I considered it odd to serve under one so much younger than I. My people tend to favor leaders with greater length of experience. But she has proven her worth abundantly in my opinion: her decisions are practical and she is fiercely loyal to the Clan. "Commander Desdin, with all due respect to the PR department, Nicodemo Basurto's holodramas are pointless, asinine exercises in navel-gazing, and I am _not_ disrupting the lives of my crew so he can make a couple million credits at some self-indulgent film festival nobody off Earth has ever heard of! Go find some other schmuck!" She hammers the disconnect key and turns in her chair to face me, shaking her head in annoyance. "At ease, Dul'krah." Elder Ehrob, in charge of engineering, steps away from the wall.

"Captain. Commander. If I may ask, what was all that about?"

"Some nonsense about using the _Bajor_ as the set for a holodrama, and unless I get a direct order from Starfleet Command it's not happening so ignore it."

"Very well. I note we are headed for the Ayala system. What has transpired to require our diversion from Jouret?"

"How's your security clearance?"

Odd question. "Sigma-9 all, Chi-4 by code word."

"Good. As you saw, we've been diverted to Facility 4028. They've had a break-in."

For a supposedly utterly secure prison, 4028 has had remarkable difficulties of late. First there was the incident with Kar'ukan and the female Founder last year, and then a group of rogue Starfleet officers with a Section 31 obsession broke in to retrieve an ally. "What details can you share, Captain?"

"I don't know much right now; they weren't sure the channel was secure. But we'll be there in four hours. There weren't any escapes this time, though, if that's what you're wondering."

"That, among other things. Casualties?"

"ISIS' main core is offline and one of their live staffers was badly injured," Ehrob answers. "She's been medevac'd to the USS _Brisbane_."

"Danger of further escapes?"

"Minimal, if the report we've got is any indication," Phohl replies. "Fortunately the _Brisbane_ was in the area, but they're not set up for the kind of investigation this calls for, so Commander Chennapragada deployed her security forces to hold the fort and called for backup."

"That's us," Kanril finishes. "Nearest available big ship."

"Do we know anything else, Captain?" She shakes her head. "Then if you will excuse me. I need to inform my team. Commander Ehrob, I will likely require the services of Master Chief Kinlo again."

The bearded Andorian male nods. "I'll let her know."

"Thank you, sir. Captain."

Kanril nods. "Right, you're dismissed, Lieutenant. I'll get the relevant files cleared and sent to your office. ETA, three hours, twenty minutes."

I stop by my quarters before proceeding to my office and light the brazier. Or rather what I am allowed to use in place of a brazier on a starship, a bowl with an electrical heating element at the bottom. I retrieve a small canvas pouch from my desk drawers, remove a pinch of dried fashkh leaf, and drop it into the brazier. It is an offering to Chul'teth, goddess of the sun, she whose fire illuminates all mysteries. I stay there for a full five minutes, surrounded by the fragrant incense, meditating.

My religious obligations met, I proceed to my office, located on deck 5 adjacent to the main brig, distribute the files to Lieutenants McMillan and K'lak and Senior Chief Darrod, and bury myself in them until the _Bajor_ comes out of warp. I glance over the dossier on the USS _Brisbane_ NCC-26240, Lieutenant Commander Sumati Chennapragada commanding, a 130-year-old _Miranda_-class somehow still in one piece, before moving on to the file on one Commander Imara Stadi, the staffer injured during the attack, a file which proves far more intriguing. Stadi is a specialist in xenopsychology who assists with some of the more … exotic inmates, and an author or co-author of over two dozen highly regarded papers in the field, including one on my people. She is also a MACO, though not a currently active one, and earned two Purple Hearts for combat injuries and the Karagite Order of Heroism for service against Nausicaan pirates during the Klingon-Gorn War. A MACO-trained psychologist, and a Betazoid at that, is a novel prospect for questioning, but what interests me most is how whomever undertook the attack overcame one with such abilities.

* * *

"They were augments, that's how," Stadi answers. She lies in the _Brisbane_'s sickbay with one arm in a sling and the other with an IV. She is in her mid-thirties, has red-gold hair cropped military-short, and a face that I understand most near-humans would consider classically beautiful is marred by a jagged scar that runs from the corner of her left eye across her lips, and ends underneath her chin.

"'Augments', sir?"

"Genetic augments."

"And?"

"And what?" She gives me a confused look.

"I do not see the issue, sir."

"For starters, they were stronger and faster than me, and that's saying something—I'm a heavyworlder."

"How heavy?"

"1.65 gravities and I work to keep it." Impressive. That's even heavier than my people's homeworld Dar Klatus. I ask her to continue. "Other thing is, I got a brush with their minds. They _knew_ they had a strength advantage over me."

She coughs a bit and I hand her the bottle of water on the desk next to her. She sips some and continues. "They beamed in firing, and when I didn't go down from the phaser blast and tried to take them hand-to-hand they broke my arm in two places and then smashed my foot for good measure. Then they took off towards Isolation Zone A. All I saw."

"Wait, they attempted to stun you and it failed?"

She shrugs her good shoulder. "Some sort of weird virus I picked up in my commando days. Aftereffects left me basically immune to low-power phaser fire. They didn't have the gun set high enough."

"Curious. That suggests they were trying not to leave a trail of bodies behind." She gives a noncommittal murmur in response. "Describe them for me, please."

"Didn't get a particularly good look; happened too fast. Two meters or less in height. One was Cardassian, female, the other a human or Betazoid male. The human had … dark blond or brown hair, about shoulder-length, and dark eyes."

"Anything else?"

"Just emotional impressions, Lieutenant, nothing really clear. I did get a sense that they were after something in particular."

"Or someone?" I suggest.

"No, definitely a 'thing', I got that much."

My combadge chirps. "Lieutenant, this is Chief Kinlo. I know how they got in and I've got a pretty good idea who they were, too. Meet me in the Primary ISIS Core when you get a chance, please."

"I am on my way." I look back to the commander. "Unless you can tell me anything else?" She shakes her head. "Very well. Be well, sir."

* * *

I beam down to the airless planetoid into which the prison is built and follow the indicators towards the core. I stride past a group of orange-jumpsuited inmates standing against a wall, guarded by a pair of Starfleet Security officers from the _Brisbane_ in full riot gear, and make a right turn. Kinlo is standing at the console, typing furiously. Elder Phohl is there, too, and I snap to attention. "Sir."

"As you were. Chief, tell him what you told me."

"La Famiglia Motta, sir," the Klingon answers without preamble.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask.

"You familiar at all with Earth-based organized crime, Dul'krah?" Phohl asks.

"Somewhat," I say in a non-committal tone. The answer depends greatly on exactly which group one asks me about. The Ver Eshalakh have had … encounters with _le Milieu_, which did not end in their favor, but my people tend to keep to themselves.

"Well, some of the old Sicilian mafia families that managed to survive the humans' World War III branched out into space after Earth went warp-capable, set up shop on the fringeworlds. The Mottas were particularly successful, made alliances with the Orion Syndicate among others. On occasion they've even had the balls to go up against Starfleet directly. Remember that clusterfrak at Torgo VII a few years back?"

"Master Chief, how do you know they are responsible?"

"The attackers used a Trojan to knock ISIS offline so they could board. I recognized some of the code when I decompiled it. Classic piece by the Mottas' pet cracker Ron Harper. Goes by Erasmus Omega on the extranet."

"Commander Stadi believes the two who attacked her were genetic augments."

"That tracks with what I know of the Mottas," Phohl agrees. "They've been known to have their enforcers augged on some of the independent planets like Adigeon Prime."

"Are they also known to specifically avoid killing people, even if it leaves witnesses behind?" Phohl gives me a confused look. "Stadi has a physiological oddity that renders her immune to low-power phaser fire. They overpowered her hand-to-hand only after she failed to fall unconscious."

"No, you've got me on that one. Maybe they were in a hurry to get in and out before the _Brisbane_ arrived."

"Sir," Kinlo says, "I just got the Warden online."

A hologram of a riot-armored white-haired human with a somewhat large nose materializes next to us. "That _hurt_," he says. Then he looks down. "There seems to be a problem here." I hear Phohl stifle a bout of laughter, and Kinlo quickly hammers out a few lines of code and the Warden's lower half rotates 180 degrees. "Ah, much better."

"Warden," I order, "Starfleet Security override, authorization Mike-Foxtrot-34844-Theta-3. Perform self-diagnostic and report status of all facility regions."

The Warden freezes in place and flickers for a moment, then resumes in a distorted monotone. "Reading severe security breach in Secure Storage Four."

"What is stored there?"

The Warden returns to his normal voice, with a worried look on his face. "Not what, sir, _whom_. I need confirmation of all of your security clearance levels before I continue." Phohl asks for the code word. "Material is classified Lambda-5, code word ICARIAN BRIGHT GEPPETTO."

After glancing at Kinlo and I to see if we leave, Phohl says, "Confirm security clearance through Lambda-5, ICARIAN BRIGHT GEPPETTO."

"The head of Lore is missing."

We stare at the Warden blankly. Finally Kinlo asks, "Who in the name of _qeylIS batlh_ is Lore, and why would anyone want his head?"

END OF PART ONE

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The Lindsey Stirling Dul'krah refers to is a real life indie artist I like, a hip-hop violinist who also does the odd cover of soundtrack tunes such as "Dragonborn". Look her up on YouTube if you get a chance.

The reference to J'mpok as a war criminal refers to the attack on Korvat in 2405, which meets the definition of ethnic cleansing and is therefore a war crime, and yet another reason I wish Cryptic would just have Worf chop his damn fool warmongering head off already.

Eleya's rant about not wanting to let the _Bajor_ be used as a holodrama set is meant to poke fun at one of the other prompts for this LC. I commented in the discussion thread that I really couldn't see Eleya, or Morgan t'Thavrau for that matter, letting it happen, because as front-line combat officers they have this irrational dislike for being interfered with by unqualified civilians. As for Brokosh? Meromi'd probably end up using their equipment for martial arts practice.

The "rogue Starfleet officers with a Section 31 obsession" bit refers to the Foundry mission series _Star Trek: Allegiance_, one which I highly recommend. Sumati Chennapragada, the CO of the USS _Brisbane_, refers to a rather good piece of _Star Trek_ fan erotica I read once called "A Bad Day for Shore Leave".

As far as I know there is no actual Motta crime family among _la Cosa Nostra_. As for why there are still mafia in _Star Trek_, just because Earth is supposedly a paradise doesn't mean the rest of the galaxy is.


	2. Part II

-begin file-

FILE CLASSIFIED LAMBDA-5 ICARIAN BRIGHT GEPPETTO -EYES ONLY-

FILE REFERENCE ICARIAN BRIGHT GEPPETTO A-1. REQUEST CLEARANCE TO LIEUTENANT DUL'KRAH, CLAN KOREKH, FEDERATION STARFLEET c/o SECURITY DEPARTMENT, USS _BAJOR_ NCC-97238

-CLEARANCE GRANTED-

Lore: Second prototype, Soong-type android, male personality. Direct predecessor to Data, Captain (retired), Federation Starfleet. First encountered by crew of USS _Enterprise_ NCC-1701-D, stardate 41242.4. Deactivated by crew of USS _Enterprise_ NCC-1701-D, stardate 47026.2. Subject disassembled after deactivation. Cranial unit transported to Facility 4028 secure storage by USS _Repulse_ NCC-2544, stardate 47131.6.

Subject classified as clinical psychopath and to be considered extremely dangerous to anyone he encounters. Subject gained full access to Starfleet computer systems aboard USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D during initial encounter and acquired large quantity of sensitive information. Full extent of compromised security remains unknown.

Do not reactivate, under penalty of ten years' incarceration.

-end file-

I set the PADD to securely erase the file and hand it to Master Chief Kinlo as the device overwrites the dossier irretrievably with a random hash of ones and zeroes. "Do we have any idea why a Sicilian mafia family would be interested in the disembodied head of an android?"

The Warden answers, "I am not programmed to be a particularly deep thinker, Lieutenant. However, that file understates the scale of the security breach Lore represents. He got a full data dump off the _Enterprise_, including a large amount of highly classified information."

"Ah. That would be immensely valuable on the black market, even forty or more years out-of-date. Warden, are any high-ranking officers of la Famiglia Motta incarcerated at this facility?"

The hologram rattles off, "Columba Ungaretti, inmate #72734, female, human/Orion genetic hybrid. Convicted on one count of premeditated murder, twelve counts of conspiracy to commit murder, six counts of conspiracy to commit piracy, and seven counts of miscellaneous racketeering, all in the capacity of caporegime for the Motta crime syndicate. Sentenced to life plus 150 years. Transferred to Facility 4028 from Tantalus Penal Colony to prevent incipient formation of Motta-affiliated prison gang under her control."

"An impressive record. Have her transferred to an interrogation room."

"Sir, are you sure that's a good idea?" Kinlo asks. "She's part Orion."

"What is the expression Dr. Wirrpanda used once? 'This is not my first rodeo.'"

"What's a rodeo?" Elder Phohl asks, her left antenna quirking.

"I do not know, but this is not my first."

* * *

Despite Kinlo's misgivings I proceed with the interrogation. Holographic guards bring in an amber-haired woman with pale green skin, wearing an orange jumpsuit that seems to have been customized somewhat by its wearer, and shackled arm and leg. They wordlessly attach her shackles to the table and leave. "Columba Ungaretti?" I ask.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" she asks.

"I am Dul'krah, Clan Korekh."

"Oh, really? What the hell does that mean? That your name or your species?"

"Did you know there was a break-in at this facility earlier today?"

"Is that what all the noise was? Woke me up out of a sound sleep."

"And that it was done at the behest of your own syndicate?"

"What?"

"It seems there is, as the humans say, no honor among thieves."

"You're lying."

"My cyberwarfare consultant positively identified the work of Ronald 'Erasmus Omega' Harper in the virus attack against this installation's computer system."

She shrugs and leans back in her seat. "If it was, I got no grudge. Not like Facility 4028 publishes its prisoner lists; they wouldn't've known I was here."

I notice her subtly emphasizing her breasts as she leans back, and I detect a scent in the air reminiscent of elharu spice. Orion pheromones. I lean forward and place my arms on the table. "Your sexual trickery will not avail you, Signorina Ungaretti."

"Oh, really? Is that so?"

"Before beginning this session, I had the chief medical officer of my starship inject me with anziothane-40."

"Anza-what?"

"It is a chemical antagonist," I respond in a conversational tone. "It binds to the same receptors as your pheromones, but does not activate them, thus blocking your biochemical abilities from taking effect. And without that, your form does not attract me: you have too few horns. Now, as to the reason for this visit, you are going to tell me where the Motta syndicate would take a trove of highly classified Starfleet data."

"Let's say I don't. What do you do? Oh, that's right, you're Starfleet. You _can't_ do anything." I wordlessly reach into the pocket of my jacket and retrieve the knife within. "What are you doing?" she says in a slightly worried tone.

I do not respond, instead drawing the knife and leaning back to pick at the ends of my talons, all the while staring at her. Here my semi-reptilian physiology works in my favor: my people have nictitating membranes in addition to eyelids, and being stared at by two seemingly lidless vertical slit pupils has a discomfiting effect on most mammals. I am also very clearly much larger and stronger than her, and the presence of the knife is yet another tool: violence perceived is violence achieved. Now it becomes a waiting game. Stripped of her physiological bonuses and with no hope of escape shackled to the table, she _will_ break.

To Ungaretti's credit, she lasts thirty-eight minutes and sets a new record for mammals' endurance under my gaze, but in the end I learn what I wish to know. Dr. Wirrpanda is waiting on the other side of the door to give me the antidote, and scolds me for testing my luck with such a dangerous toxin as anziothane-40. I will likely regret it in the morning, but only slightly.

* * *

"Captain," Master Chief Wiggin announces, "I'm picking up a warp signature ahead. They're doing warp seven, and on the right vector."

"Time to overhaul?" Great Elder Kanril asks.

"Ten minutes, thirty seconds."

"Conn, true up our course to get us onto their tail. Let's climb right up his tailpipe."

"Aye, Captain," Lieutenant Park confirms.

"Tess, battle stations."

The _Bajor_ has now been underway for 39 hours along the course given us by Columba Ungaretti. Being a much more capable vessel than the ancient Brisbane, we were given the task of pursuing the thieves.

I reach for the intercom at the console I have been seated at. I do not usually stay on the bridge, but I requested it this time. "This is Lieutenant Korekh. Boarding party, report to the armory." I am already armed, and armored as well: my old Ver Eshalakh uniform contains armorweave capable of defeating most energy pistols, and can stop a knife.

"I'm going with you."

"That is not necessary, Captain."

"Yes, it is," and she gets up from her chair and looks over at me. "You know my style, Dul'krah."

I do, very well. Kanril is the sort of great elder who refuses to order her crew to do anything she herself is unwilling to attempt. I am told it is why she took the MACO training course early last year, before she was given the _Bajor_. "It is, of course, up to you, Captain."

We wait. Presently I speak up. "Captain, I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"When I interviewed Commander Stadi I detected a peculiar note of … disdain in her voice when she spoke of the augments."

"Non-therapeutic genetic alterations are illegal in Federation space."

"That is not what I asked."

Kanril sighs. "The humans, and a couple other species but mainly the humans, have issues with augments. Something about genetically altered dictators causing problems on Earth back in the 1990s. They're terrified that if they let that kind of enhancement happen, they'll end up with another Acahuana Huamán or Khan Singh."

"And so they automatically ascribe the worst possible intent to anyone with genetic augmentation?"

"Oh, it's worse," Elder Phohl chimes in. "Getting augs is illegal, having someone augged is illegal, and anyone who gets augged anyway is barred from Starfleet and public office. No wonder a lot of them turn criminal—folks like the Mottas actually appreciate them."

"In that case, I should clearly not be here." At a confused look from Kanril and Phohl, I explain. "_All_ of my people are genetically augmented. Our immune systems and DNA and cellular repair functions are vastly more effective than yours, we are resistant to most toxins, and we can subsist on materials that most would not even consider edible."

"When did this happen?"

"According to our histories it dates back to the aftermath of the Great Clan War. It was the only way the few remaining clans were able to survive the plagues, famine, and radiation that permeated Dar Klatus. Most of us still died."

"I'm no lawyer, but I think that falls under the exception for therapeutic gene-mods," Elder Riyannis points out.

"That is entirely beside the point, sir. It is nothing less than legislative discrimination, and therefore it is not only morally abhorrent under all Federation principles that I am aware of, but also unconstitutional under the discrimination clauses of the Articles of Federation."

Kanril adds, "And on the purely practical side, augmentation's about the only way for the physically weaker species like humans and Bajorans to compete with, say, a Vulcan or a Klingon. Never mind lightworlders like the Elaysians. Unfortunately because of how much influence the humans have in the Federation political climate, I don't think anybody's ever had the guts to try for a legal challenge, not even the few openly augmented Starfleet officers like Captain Bashir. It's stupid, it's militarily counterproductive, and, yes, it's unconstitutional, but them's the rules. Master Chief, how far out are we?"

"Five minutes left, ma'am."

At overhaul minus two minutes, Wiggin calls out, "Captain, we're close enough to identify, and you're not going to believe this. The target's a _Constitution_-class heavy cruiser, _Enterprise_-class Mark III spec."

"What?"

"Oh, it gets better. It's the tactical command cruiser sub-variant."

"That's impossible: there was only one of those built," Elder Riyannis points out, then her eyes widen.

"_Sher hahr kosst_," Kanril breathes. "It's the _Enterprise_-A."

"That ship was supposed to have been scrapped in 2293," Elder Reshek says.

"The Motta syndicate has been active in this region since the 2230s," I note. "They may have altered the breaker yard records. Now we know how they can stand up to Starfleet's patrol vessels. They have one of our capital ships."

Kanril gets a look on her face I do not recognize. "No, they don't. They've got a hundred-twenty-five-year-old museum piece with some newer tech bolted on. Ensign Esplin, open a hailing channel."

"Channel open."

"USS _Enterprise_, or whatever you're calling yourself these days, this is USS _Bajor_. Drop to sublight immediately and heave to. Repeat, you are ordered to release control of your helm and prepare to be boarded."

"Sir, they're accelerating! Now at warp 7.5, 8, 8.5—"

"Conn, take us to warp 9.95 and get us within a hundred klicks. Match velocities as you close."

The power of intimidation is a tool we in the Ver Eshalakh prize very highly. I used it two days ago in interrogating Columba Ungaretti, and decades ago when I was crew on a patrol cutter, we used it against smugglers and pirates who thought the Dar Klatus system could be their safe haven. And for a starship captain, there are few things more frightening than the sight we must now present to the Mottas' captain: a vastly more powerful ship, more than twice the former Starfleet flagship's size and seven times her mass, effortlessly charging up their wake as if they are standing still. "We're in range, sir," Park announces. "Target's delta-_v_ is dropping. Warp 9.2 and holding. I think they've topped out their SIF."

"Tess," Kanril orders, "fire a pair of quantum torpedoes across his bow, set for detonation thirty klicks ahead of him."

"Ready, ma'am."

"Fire." On the tactical plot taking up the viewscreen, two torpedoes scream out of the forward torpedo tube, past the _Enterprise_ on either side, and detonate in a pair of flashes. "_Bajor_ to _Enterprise_, consider that your final warning. Next time we fire for effect."

"No response, ma'am," Esplin says.

Wiggin says, "I'm reading some serious strain to their warp drive. The Connie was never meant to go this fast." He pauses, then shouts, "I'm reading an energy buildup! They're shooting back at us, Captain!"

Twin blue beams lance out of the _Constitution_-class starship's aft phaser emitters and crash into the forward lobe of our warp field in a spectacular display of exotic particles. What remains is so weakened by the passage that Elder Phohl does not bother calling out how little damage it did to our shields. "I don't think they're taking the hint, Captain," she remarks dryly.

"Yeah, and if they keep this up they're going to spread themselves across half a light-year even if we don't do anything. Tess, take the gloves off and target their warp drive. You may fire at will."

"I have a lock. Firing."

A searing orange lance erupts from the dorsal phaser array and slams into the _Enterprise_'s aft shields. The first shot is deflected, but two more from above and below our saucer quickly follow. The enemy shield glitters and collapses and another spear of particles smashes into the starboard nacelle and pierces through it. A second rakes across the saucer and a shield projector vanishes in a secondary explosion, while a third transects the engineering hull, and yet a fourth rips through the port nacelle pylon. The target goes into a flat spin and its warp field collapses with a thunderstorm of released energy as the _Bajor_ blows past. "Crash translate, now!" Kanril orders Park, and with an even more spectacular starburst on the viewscreen we emerge onto a severely blue-shifted starfield. "Conn, come about!"

"Coming about! Range to target, four light-minutes!"

"Are they mobile at all?" Phohl checks.

"No, sir," Wiggin replies. "They're dead in the water. Good shooting, Commander."

"Lieutenant," Kanril orders the helmsman, "take us in. Lock on target and microjump us into phaser range."

"Conn, aye. Warp 3 in five, four, three, two, one, mark!" The _Bajor_ bolts past the speed of light for six seconds and emerges less than a hundred kilometers from the vessel lying helpless in the void between stars.

"Relative stop. Hail them again, Ensign."

"Channel open."

"USS _Enterprise_, this is USS _Bajor_. You're _done_. Last chance to surrender before we board and add 'resisting arrest' to your fast-growing rap sheet."

Still the enemy crew says nothing. "Master Chief Wiggin," I ask, "could something be wrong with their communications?"

"That's not the problem, sir. There's just nobody over there to answer the hail. I've got no life signs at all."

"That's not possible," Kanril says in disbelief. "I studied the Connie for my Kobayashi Maru. You can't run it unmanned. You can only barely run it with just the command staff."

"Sir," Wiggin answers in a grave tone, "I didn't say 'no life _forms_', I said 'no life _signs_'."

"Everyone's dead?"

"I didn't think I hit it _that_ hard," Phohl remarks.

"Let's go over and take a look."

* * *

Kanril, Riyannis, an assault unit numbering fourteen, and myself materialize on the command deck, Kanril in her fully sealed MACO battle armor, the rest of us in vacsuits. The entire bridge is thinly covered in a reddish goo. I hear somebody mutter, "What the …"

"Where the hell is the crew?" McMillan wonders aloud. "And what the hell is _this_ shit?" she adds, prodding a lumpy section of the goo.

I stoop down and pass a tricorder over it, as does one of the other humans in the boarding party. "L.T.," he says, "this shit _is_ the crew."

McMillan turns green and vomits all over the helm control console. "What did this?" K'lak asks as he kneels beside his mate.

"Momentary power loss to the inertial dampeners," I answer grimly. "I saw it once before. It was something I hoped to never see again."

"Battle damage?" Kanril asks.

"Likely."

"On the bright side, they didn't feel a thing," Riyannis comments in a faux cheerful tone.

Kanril glares at the Trill, then turns to the rest of us. "The ship's too big for just us to search for Lore's head without a map. Chief Kinlo, can you get into the computers?"

Kinlo examines one of the consoles and taps in a few commands, then shakes her head. "Not with the gear I brought with me. Most of the functions are biometrically locked."

"Captain," I ask, "where are the VIP quarters aboard a ship of this class?"

The great elder thinks for a moment. "Deck 6, I think." I hear a faint hiss in the background. "Do you hear something?"

Then I see a white vapor begin to billow out from the life support ducts. "Gas!" I shout. "Seal your suits!" I lower my faceplate, then jerk McMillan to her feet and slam her faceplate closed.

"Comm check," Kanril's voice comes through the speakers in my helmet.

"Check," I reply as the status display on the helmet HUD comes online.

"Tricorder says it's anesthizine," Riyannis comments. "That'll be the _Enterprise_'s crowd-control systems. Seriously outdated now that vacsuits are a thing."

Kanril starts to say, "Nobody's alive. That's—"

"Impossible?" the Trill interrupts. "Ma'am, that's the third time in the last fifteen minutes somebody's said that and, uh, it's been possible every time."

"The turbolifts are likely not safe," K'lak says, hefting his phaser rifle. "We should take the Jefferies tubes to deck 6."

A six-story climb later we emerge on the deck in question. The lights are out and anesthizine gas billows throughout the corridor, a malevolent fog illuminated only by the lamps on our helmets and the flashlights on our rifles' optics. Kanril takes point, leading the way down the sternward corridor, and Senior Chief Athezra brings up the rear.

We reach a door labeled "VIP Quarters 1" and begin palming access panels. Door number four refuses to open and Kanril and I slice a torso-sized hole in it with sustained beams from our rifles. I eject the partially drained power cell and insert another, then we step through the hole.

"Oh, they _didn't_," Kanril complains. Lore's head is connected to a console.

"_QIp petaQpu'!_" Master Chief Kinlo snarls. "How could they be so stupid as to give a Soong-type android access to their computer core? Lore's in control of the _Enterprise_."

"Well, he won't be commanding her for very long," Kanril says, before raising her rifle and putting a burst into the console. The head has just enough time to say something uncomplimentary before she steps in, flicks its power switch, and unplugs the cables. "Well, this is a fine mess. Kanril to _Bajor_, package recovered. Beam us back and inform Starfleet Command that we've also recovered the _Enterprise_-A. They can do whatever they like with it, once they've swabbed the decks."

* * *

Back on the bridge, Kanril orders the _Enterprise_ tractored for a warp tow. "Command's arguing about whether to turn her into a museum ship or a training vessel for the Academy. We've been ordered to take her to the yards at 40 Eri ASAP for repairs in the meantime."

"I do not think you need me for that, Captain."

"No, I don't. I need you and whomever you need to take Lore back to Facility 4028. Actually, _I_ need you to toss him into a star. _Command_ wants him at 4028."

"I will require a ship."

"The _Brisbane_'s on an intercept course. We'll drop you off with them in the _Glyrhond_ and you'll take the runabout to meet us at Vulcan."

"That is acceptable. If I may be excused, I must begin packing."

"Dismissed, Dul'krah. And good work."

**THE END**

* * *

**Author's Notes:** See that? That's what's _supposed_ to happen when you send a 23rd century ship up against a 25th century ship. Kiss my pretty Bajoran backside, T5 Connie crowd.

The fight scene in this chapter is based heavily on the USS _Vengeance_'s attack on the _Enterprise_ in _Star Trek Into Darkness_, with Eleya and the _Bajor_ standing in for Admiral Alexander Marcus. That shot of the _Vengeance_ barreling up behind the fleeing _Enterprise_ is one of the things that stuck with me from the JJverse. Say what you will about the writing and scale issues, but he's got the imagery _cold_.

And that's also what's supposed to happen if the inertial dampeners on a ship fail under high-delta-_v_ conditions. No _Star Trek_ shake, no crewmen calling out damage reports. Instead, as David Weber loves to remind us in the _Honor Harrington_ novels, everybody on the ship is instantly turned into something resembling chunky salsa. Minor structural damage.


End file.
